


Too Drunk

by exeterlinden



Series: Ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn't've)? [1]
Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: Community: pacifi_cant, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-14
Updated: 2010-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exeterlinden/pseuds/exeterlinden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill's sitting with his legs open, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. Joe's surprised to see that he's smiling to himself. He looks up at Joe, friendly and benevolent like he rarely is.</p><p>"Good night, huh?" he says. His voice is slurred and raw.</p><p>"Yeah." Joe answers, at a loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Drunk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idreamedmusic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=idreamedmusic).



_"It seemed like only yesterday_  
you found that golden stick  
but self-love's a bad addiction  
it's a habit you can't kick" 

Joe snorts even though all sound is drowned out by the noise from the stage, then turns around to push out of the half-heartedly moshing crowd, and towards the bar at the back of the venue.  
__  
"And now you're ALWAYS at it  
you fuckin' ORGASM ADDICT!"

It's a shitty song. Joe was never a fan of _Cockbuzz_, and fuck the local hype. Billy and him came to see the opening act, _The Shits_, and the only reason he's still here is because they've paid eight dollars to get in. Besides that, beer's only a dollar a bottle, and no one’s asking for ID.

He finds Billy at the bar, slouched down low in a bar stool. There are several empty bottles in front of him and when he turns towards Joe, his eyes are half closed, a dopey smile on his sweaty face. So fucking drunk, far beyond the ability to speak. Billy'd been leaning on Joe through most of _The Shits'_ concert, with his hot face pressed against Joe's shoulder. He's had at least a couple of beers since then, by the looks of it.

"You should take your girl home, Joseph," Tom shouts from behind the bar.

"Fuck you, Tom, fuck you!" Joe shouts over the din of the music, meaning it with all his heart - but at the same time he's grabbing Billy by the shoulders and pulling him towards the exit.

Billy's lost his coat somewhere, and ends up stumbling along in his shirt sleeves to the bus stop three blocks down. He doesn't even seem to notice the cold, taking big careful steps and occasionally grabbing Joe for balance. He doubles over retching without warning right next to the bus sign, and for a while Joe's worried if the driver's gonna let them get on the bus.

Once they're safely on board, Joe makes sure to sit them right at the back. Bill's sitting with his legs open, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. Joe's surprised to see that he's smiling to himself. He looks up at Joe, friendly and benevolent like he rarely is. "Good night, huh?" he says. His voice is slurred and raw.

"Yeah." Joe answers, at a loss.

He's not even going to try to get Billy to his own place, and either Bill doesn't notice that they pass his stop, or he doesn't care. 

At the Mulgrew residence everything's dark and quiet, Joe's parents have gone to bed a long time ago. Joe drags Billy up the driveway and up the stairs to his room. Billy stands mutely in the middle of Joe's room while Joe fumbles for the switch to his bedside lamp. When Joe finally gets the switch and turns back around, Billy's just standing there, watching. Joe swallows. "You've puke on your shirt, you retard," he says.

Billy blinks slowly.

Joe walks up to him, reaches over and starts pulling at his ratty shirt, avoiding the dark stains. Billy goes along with it without protest, even lifting his arms to let Joe roll the damp shirt up over his head. Blonde strands of hair are plastered to the pale skin of his armpits. When he stretches, his ribs are visible underneath his skin.

Joe throws the shirt on the floor. Billy sways dangerously, and Joe puts a palm against his sternum, steadying him. "I think you've got a drinking problem, William Boisy," he mumbles, out of habit.

"Yeah, problem is I've got nothing to drink," Billy answers by rote. It's an old joke.

Joe moves his hand away when Billy's found his balance. In the silence he can hear the blood rushing in his ears, the resonant ringing from amplified guitars. He takes a deep breath, "Okay, pants." He reaches for Billy's belt, business-like, but Billy bats his hands away.

"I'm not that drunk, you ass," he says, laughing, and Joe retreats quickly.

It's a small bed. Hard for both of them to fit in. Joe climbs in first, Billy follows. Joe lies on his back for a while, before turning onto his side behind Billy. The bed dips and suddenly Billy's skinny ass is touching Joe's stomach, the boney juts of his spine lined up against his underarm. Joe stills.

"Smooth, Joe, smooth." Billy says, sounding half asleep.

"Fuck you."

Billy snorts, but doesn't move away. _"... It's all I need right now, oh baby, I'm melting like an ice cream bar, oh baby... " _he sings tunelessly into the pillow, and Joe relaxes slightly. He hesitates and then slings the arm trapped between them over Billy's hip. "Shut your fucking mouth and go to sleep."

Billy does.

It's harder for Joe. During the night, he wakes up a couple of times with his open mouth pressed against Billy's neck and shoulders, the distinct, salty-sour taste of his skin on his lips.


End file.
